The joke didn’t land, and Dan felt his heart drop. Pat’s left foot snagged on the carpet, and he scraped by the door to the boiler closet. He grabbed the doorknob and made the last few careening steps down the hall. Dan went to the kitchen and brought the big ceramic mixing bowl and a glass of water to the back room. His father fell onto the couch and lay there exhausted, his head rolled back like he had broken his neck.

“Dad?”

“Just leave it. Thank you. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Dad.”

“Listen, Dan, one thing. Go to the garage and get me a bottle.”

“No.”

“Dan, please do this for me. I feel terrible . . .” Pat’s face crimped into a sob that he tried to hold back. “I can’t sleep with this flu, and I just need a drink to knock me out.”

Dan took his father’s water glass and went out the back-room closet through to the garage. In the dark he poured the water on the ground. Dan found the case of Wolfschmidt and cracked open a bottle, pouring three fingers. He came back into the house and presented the glass to his father.

“Here.”

Pat had the spins, and he opened his eyes like he had been caught falling. Dan saw how frightened his father looked as he grabbed the glass. Then Pat stopped and remembered himself. He looked up.

“It’s okay, Danny boy. Thank you. I’ll be better in the morning.”

Pat took a sip, and Dan watched as he regained himself. He thought about the Hawthorne story where they drink from the fountain of youth and the miserable brume of cares and sorrows and diseases lifts like a dream, only to curse the drinkers. Pat took another swallow, finishing the drink, and tried to sit up on the couch.

“Did you bring the bottle in?”

With a terrible anger, Dan left his father lying in the dark and returned to his own room.

January 1, 1988

[ JANUARY 1, 1988 ]